


Kiss me like the final meal

by toboldlyhomo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is looking like a snack and Crowley is starving, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, I'm Dutch and have opinions about cheese, JUST KISS ALREADY, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Who doesn't like a good charcuterie board
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toboldlyhomo/pseuds/toboldlyhomo
Summary: The Arrangement is so organic between them, and their run-ins change from coincidence to a steady routine. Clandestine meetings in parks, on buses, and soon enough Aziraphale is inviting him to his bookshop.Crowley feels his guard coming down, his walls caving, and after enough drinks he tests the waters and lets Aziraphale see his eyes again. It’s the most stark representation of his true nature, of what lurks within, and Aziraphale never shies away. Crowley realises that Aziraphale accepts him, wholly and without desire to change him.And by then he’s forced to admit he’s falling in an entirely new way.





	Kiss me like the final meal

Crawly is in a garden. Not just any garden, but The Garden. The very first garden. Hell has sent him to do a quick temptation, and it was almost too easy. As though it was meant to happen. He slithers up the wall and at its apex is almost blinded by the view. The sun is glinting on the sand and searing his eyes, and beside him stands a being of the most intense light he’s ever witnessed. But he has been fooled by beauty and golden locks before, and he knows better than to trust an angel.

“Didn’t you used to have a sword?” Crawly asks, the first chapter in their story. The rest is history, though butchered by the words of mankind. 

* * *

He meets Aziraphale again, having grown fond of his own human form, and now his name is Crowley. No longer bent and forced down in supplication, not grovelling on the floor for those who see themselves superior. He is Crowley, and he’s been waiting to see Aziraphale for years. 

Their paths intersect in a crowd, animals and humans paired off two by two, and at the front of a barricade separating the species is a lone figure with glowing platinum hair. Crowley moves towards him, two by two, and slots himself at the Angel’s side. They wait for the storm.

* * *

Centuries pass before they run into each other again. Crowley sports a new haircut and his amber slit eyes are covered with dark lenses. It’s completely by chance, but Crowley gets this niggling feeling in his stomach at the thought of leaving. And then the Angel offers a temptation to him and his heart stutters in his chest. It’s quickly covered up and Aziraphale corrects himself, but Crowley feels drawn to him.

* * *

Crowley starts keeping tabs on Aziraphale - as much as he can without drawing suspicion from the Higher Ups and the Lower Downs. There is a revolution going on and it’s the perfect place for Crowley to find himself, amidst all the chaos, yet Aziraphale is there too and with his forked tongue he can taste that something has gone awry. He finds him in a cell awaiting execution, and that just won’t do. 

He freezes time around them, and behind Aziraphale tries to make himself look as nonchalant as possible. The Angel turns and says his name, _his_ name, the chosen one that not even hell honors, and it melts something inside of him. He scoffs at Aziraphale’s excuses, plays up the demon act just enough to deter questions about his conveniently timed appearance, and gives into the hope that this time an angel won’t hurt him.

* * *

The Arrangement is so organic between them, and their run-ins change from coincidence to a steady routine. Clandestine meetings in parks, on buses, and soon enough Aziraphale is inviting him to his bookshop. 

Crowley feels his guard coming down, his walls caving, and after enough drinks he tests the waters and lets Aziraphale see his eyes again. It’s the most stark representation of his true nature, of what lurks within, and Aziraphale never shies away. Crowley realises that Aziraphale accepts him, wholly and without desire to change him. 

And by then he’s forced to admit he’s falling in an entirely new way. 

* * *

The fantasies started at least a thousand years ago, and not much about them has changed since they first came to him in the recesses of night, save for Aziraphale’s appearance and his latest gourmand proclivities. Crowley doesn’t hunger and doesn’t crave food. Not until he sees flecks of it dusting Aziraphale’s lips, rivulets of syrups and cocktails and other delightful concoctions dripping from him. 

As a demon, you would expect his mind to be laced with sinful, lustful images in this moment. Aziraphale sits across from him, one hand neatly folded in his lap while the other dips a spoon into a shallow ceramic bowl filled with chilled cucumber soup. Aziraphale raises it to his rosy lips and purses them as the cold liquid slips in, satisfaction dripping from him with a pleased moan as he wiggles in his seat. 

And Crowley is, as always, transfixed at the motion, the well-practiced puckering of his mouth. But instead of thoughts of ravishing, all he thinks of is Aziraphale's lips on his. Other demons would certainly laugh at him for wanting something so tender, almost holy in its nature, but he can't help it. And so he watches. It's become his favourite hobby, his obsession. 

Crowley’s mind is consumed with tasting it all on Aziraphale’s skin, delving his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth to lap up every last trace of flavour until all that’s left is Aziraphale himself. He wants to remove every unworthy morsel that gets to luxuriate in Aziraphale’s mouth. And then Aziraphale selfishly dabs the remnants away with a serviette.

* * *

It gets worse after the bomb drops, and then comes to a rolling stop. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He retreats. He feels disgusting, predatory, and doesn’t see Aziraphale again for a while.

* * *

It’s a Tuesday, which is nothing special in and of itself, but Crowley and Aziraphale are together again. Well, dining together, as they do for almost every meal lately with trouble looming on the horizon and who knows how much time they have left.

It’s the only time Crowley really humours that oh-so-mortal necessity, and if he’s being honest - which he compulsively is around Arizaphale (just not always out loud) - he still wouldn’t mind being together in other ways too.

Crowley sips gingerly from his own teacup, the closest he'll get to eating today. The noise of food distracts too much from Aziraphale, unsettling crunching and munching and saliva-slick chewing like cud. He drinks Aziraphale in with his eyes, and it's all the sustenance he needs. 

The corners of Aziraphale's mouth quirk and Crowley watches his lips form his name, and then again, which sends a tingle up his curved spine. It takes a third concerned _Crowley, dear_ for him to snap back to attention and look Aziraphale in the eyes. 

"Hm? Sorry, what were you saying?" 

"I was asking if you'd like to go for a stroll after lunch." 

Walking makes it much harder for Crowley to watch Aziraphale, but it's closer than having a table between them and that's something he will always be amenable to. "Where to?" He asks, not that the destination matters because he would follow Aziraphale anywhere. 

* * *

It’s a random Thursday after the not-Apocalypse and this time Crowley is alone in his vast apartment. Away from the forces of hell and their energy, his anger has dissipated. His plants grow just as well, as vibrant and luscious as ever. Though they still tremble out of muscle memory, Crowley hasn't yelled at them in weeks. 

He waters them with flowing wrist movements, more akin to a barista making patterns in foam than a demon doing, well, anything. It’s methodical, meditative. And it’s the only thing keeping him sane right now.

Crowley is in a self-imposed exile. He feels on the verge of making a mistake, of slipping up in front of Aziraphale. His gaze has been too intense as of late and he needs these moments of privacy to centre himself before their meals, their jaunts, their too-late-in-the-night drinks in the bookshop. 

He puts the watering can away and drapes himself over the charcoal sheets of his bed, smooth and slippery as his own true skin. Crowley drags his hands down his face, covering his eyes as he rubs the inner duct with his fingers, and then ghost over his mouth. His thoughts are back to Aziraphale. Damn it. (Bless it?) 

He holds his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, playing with the delicate, pliable skin, and wonders again what Aziraphale would be like. Crowley imagines carding his fingers through Aziraphale’s lamb-soft hair and capturing his mouth. He wants to feel teeth on his skin and to open the Angel’s mouth with his long tongue, to utterly devour him. 

But his mind never strays from Aziraphale’s mouth, never ventures away from the plumpness of those lips. He wants to worship at the throne of them, lay offerings of decadence on an altar to them, and revel in the liturgies they spout. Aziraphale has been the only one to utter kindnesses to him without motive, not once in 6000 years has he demanded anything of Crowley or made him feel lesser than. 

He might just die if he doesn’t kiss Aziraphale soon, and that would land him right back on Hell’s doorstep. 

* * *

Mere hours later, Crowley finds himself back in Aziraphale’s sitting room behind the bookshop. The Angel is pulling out a slate tray piled high with pleasures for his senses: jams, candied walnuts, ripe figs, medjool dates, apple slices, brie, port salut, garlic and herb boursin, smoked gouda with a deep brown rind, ricotta smothered in local honey, and toasted slices of baguette, with a pomegranate, feta, and rocket salad. 

He’s careful in his movements and glides effortlessly to place it on the low coffee table, not a single item shifting under his grasp. Crowley sits, restlessly shifting as red zinfandel swirls in his glass and stirs when Aziraphale sits down right next to him, sinking into the plush couch. 

Aziraphale cuts a wedge of brie with a slotted knife, and lays it on a slice of toasted baguette with sour cherry jam, and offers it to Crowley who politely declines. It crunches under Aziraphale’s teeth and he breathes out a sigh of relief as he chews. His tongue darts out to collect the crumbs and Crowley is captivated by it.

Crowley waivers for a moment, then gives in. “Actually, can I-,” he’s surprised at himself for even considering it, but he needs the distraction and it would feed his fantasies for another decade. “I’d like to try a piece. Whichever is your favourite.” _Whichever tastes most like you_ , he means.

Aziraphale inclines his head. Crowley rarely ever does more than drink in his presence, but ever the gracious host Aziraphale moves to select the proper cheese. “I dare say I can’t really pick a favourite of these,” his eyes flicker back to Crowley, curious, and ultimately he decides to play it safe with a cube of the smoked gouda. “This, um, this is a Dutch cheese, wonderful for snacking on if I do say so myself. Sturdy but creamy enough to break away in your mouth, and the darker the rind is the better.” Aziraphale had spent several years in the last century hopping from country to country on the Continent, sampling various wares between bestowing virtues, and became himself quite the connoisseur. 

Aziraphale plucks up a cube of the smoked gouda and with a slight tremor raises it up for Crowley to take from him. Instead, Crowley is already leaning forward with his eyes closed and lips parted, patiently waiting, and Aziraphale freezes. He’s never seen Crowley like this before, so exposed and vulnerable to him, at least not while inhabiting a body. Then he continues, afraid he might startle Crowley if he moves too fast. 

Crowley’s forked tongue pokes out as though he’s about to receive holy communion, and Aziraphale gently places it down. Crowley is tugging it into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it, but Aziraphale hasn’t let go yet, and suddenly two of his fingers find themselves tucked into a wet heat. The tongue swirls around them and Crowley is astonished that he enjoys the flavour, letting out a shocked moan. Then confusion is crossing his brow at the size and shape of the intrusion, and he opens his eyes wide. Crowley’s jaw goes slack, the forgotten cheese tumbling into his lap, and sputters.

“A- Ange-- Aziraphale, I…” And Crowley doesn’t know what to say, he can’t think. Well no, that’s not true. He can’t think about anything else but the taste of Aziraphale and his mind has stammered as much as his voice. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages in panic.

Aziraphale feels just as nervous, and confused, and… and then his eyes are locked on Crowley’s lips, glistening with saliva, and his own breath starts coming fast. The world fades away and a puzzle piece clicks in his head. This act, this behaviour, he recognises it from all the times he has spent with Crowley, being watched like he is the centre of the universe. “Don’t go,” he asks, pleads, wants. 

And Crowley stops. 

And Crowley feels himself hoping at the expression he sees mirrored on Aziraphale’s face. 

And Crowley waits. 

“Why?”

“I love you, Crowley.”

“You’re an Angel,” he says matter-of-factly. “You love everything.”

“But I choose you.”

They meet somewhere in the middle. Aziraphale’s hands are cradling Crowley’s face, and Crowley’s hands are split between Aziraphale’s hair and the top of his shoulder. Their noses touch as they share the same breaths of air, hesitating at the all-too-real feeling of it under their palms. 

Crowley’s bottom lip is starting to quiver as he tilts his head, and he fights fights fights against the voice in his head and replaces its words with Aziraphale’s. _I love you_. He loves you. Not Crawly the underling, the traitor to Heaven, but Crowley the self-named being, the friend. 

And Crowley falls, overcome with a love he can at last show. His lips part and he closes the distance between them, melting into Aziraphale and shedding his past. Aziraphale is his future, his present, his everything, and he will devote lifetimes to showing him that.

**Author's Note:**

> Please like and comment if you enjoyed it! I'm having a lot of fun getting back into writing, and as always I truly appreciate the fact that anyone is reading these little brain nuggets. You're beautiful and I love you.


End file.
